Saving my life — One British costume drama at a time.

Words Escape Me

I’m always struck silent and dumb when I attempt to shove Thanksgiving into 20th Century Brit Lit context. Probably because Brits don’t celebrate our version of Thanksgiving. This year we included another family in our Thanksgiving dinner celebration. Kim, the mother, is a former Londoner, with a charming accent undiminished and unmellowed by her years living on the West Coast, married to a native Californian.

Hoping to impress her with my international savoir faire, I asked the man at the local European deli what a Brit would have for Thanksgiving dinner (He had an accent – I figured he would know) Blandly, he replied, “Since Thanksgiving is when you Yanks decided you’d rather starve on foreign shores than live in England a moment longer, I’m not sure there’s an answer to that question.”

I settled for starting with Stilton, crackers and smoked salmon. Fine.

But as the resulting marvelously relaxed dinner revealed, there is no national boundary on Thanks or Giving. Nor is there any minimum weight or yardstick. No wooden cutout indicating Must Be As Tall As This Line to Be Worthy Of Thanks.

So at the risk of sounding theatrically sentimental, I offer unrepentant thanks for The Big Things — Good health, a happy marriage, books, music, American citizenship – but also for The Small Things, the stuff of life, the things that render this life more livable, more colorful, more filled with light and imagery, more five-sense-ual. Again, here, I am struck dumb and silent by the enormity of The Small Things. Despite my love of words I am rendered wordless when Giving Thanks. So I am thankful to God that He can interpret the contents of my brimming, bursting heart.